


The Abyss

by Lusus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Suspense, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lusus/pseuds/Lusus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night of Blackwater, the Hound offers to take Sansa Stark away from King's Landing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All Characters belong to George R. R. Martin.

Chapter One

In the night he comes for Sansa, with the drink upon him, the Hound looks half mad. Blood clings dried and cracked, as marred as the burns on his face. Mailed hands hold her close in a painful vice. What little kindness he bore has drained and emptied, not unlike the flagon he left beside her bed. Breath bellows from his ruined mouth, a spray of hot mist thickened by the stench of vomit and wine.

He asks her to come with him; she doesn’t answer right away. Her thoughts have become a clouded mire of soot, and blood, and green. The color of fear, she thought, before the Hound shakes her. Sansa doesn’t want to look at him, but he makes her anyway. His eyes are wide and wild. Of course, the fire. 

“I will keep you safe,” he rasps at her. It seems to Sansa almost desperate. She doesn’t know if she believes him, or if she pity’s him. Or have I gone mad? Nonetheless, she nods her consent. 

Before she can think on her agreement, the Hound is filling a sack with her things: silks, furs, jewels, anything worth a stag, it all goes. He shrouds Sansa in a simple wool cloak; it is gray and common about her shoulders, but warm. The Hound pulls the hood over her head, however too large, she is too frightened to fuss. “Not a peep out of you.” The Hound kneels before her, catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Keep-up. I will leave you” He pinches her, rough, calloused, and mean.

Ser. Dontos, she remembers suddenly, I forgot poor Ser. Dontos! But the Hound already has her by the arm, dragging her along. His pace is fast, much too fast. Anxious, she stumbles over her feet, clumsy. Once. Twice. The third were on the steps, descending. The Hound catches her, and sets her to right. 

But it wasn’t. This is not right. None of it! This is not how it’s supposed to be. It is all wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. 

Outside is much worse. It is night, yet the moon and the stars cannot be seen. The world is obscured in a jade horror. Men and woman overtake the streets, like the smoke, which seemed to conquer King’s Landing. Not Stannis. Some run in terror. Mothers hold their children close, husbands their wives even closer. Others sack, thieve, take what is a not given, and not only valuables, but woman as well. Sansa could see them all, copulating in the streets. She’d seen enough animals to know.   
Lollys, Sansa whimpers. The chaos swallows her cry.   
Sansa shuts her eyes and leans into the Hounds’s plate, biting and unkind. She feels a babe, small in comparison to… everything. The Hound holds her tight, and squeezes. It is a small kindness, a reassurance, before he leads her into the abyss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave comments and reviews. I love to hear feedback.

Chapter Two 

The roar of the crowd swells, the air made thick with so many bodies so near. Sansa retreats further against the Hound, desperately seeking refuge, eyes closed, and face hidden. She tucks her fingers away, curling them in a clutch at the gap of his plate, about the pit of his arm. The chainmail chafes at her knuckles with every stride. Sansa suspects they will begin to bleed soon. 

“You cannot make your nest inside my plate, Little Bird,” the Hound mutters, rough lips scarcely brushing her ear, his breath warm and soggy. 

Sansa feels the Hound kick and thrash against the crowd. He begins to growl, a low rumble in the barrel of his chest. 

Droves of hands ghost her person. Some are warm, others cold and unkind. A Pair of hands is at her waist, suddenly. At first she believes them to be the Hounds, strong and relentless, yet they begin to bruise. The bones of his fingers are sharp and dig into the plush expanse of her hips. Tears threaten to flow. 

He never…He wouldn’t…

But, she understands now. Sansa is being torn away. Her eyes flare open, panicked, as she meets the Hound’s gaze. 

He’s angry. 

Pathetically, she cries out to him, grasping out to the Hound to no avail. Sansa turns in her assailant’s clutches, convinced it was Garlic Breath’s ghost, to only be greeted by a Gold Cloak being hacked from collarbone to naval. The Gold Cloak gasps like a fish, as Sansa is sprayed in a red coat of warm syrup. It’s in her mouth, metallic and awful. Her stomach churns, and she fights not to retch. 

Sansa isn’t sure, but she hears the Hound snarl, “Mine,” before he carefully gathers her against him.

They approach a stable, a place secluded from the thick of things.

The Hound sets her free, with a pat on the arm. Sansa means to follow him inside, but he stops abruptly and without warning. He’s gone rigid in the shoulders, back quivering in a sigh. He turns on her, swift and sharp. On instinct, Sansa withdraws further into her hood. But the Hound sees, and knows. A dog always knows. He barks for Sansa to look at him. She makes no move to obey, only trembles under the burden of his stare. 

I don’t have to look at you to know, Sansa wants to say it, but cannot. I can see you scarred, and angry, and awful. 

He takes her roughly, her jaw swallowed by the worn plane of his palm. Sansa regrets her decision to come, as her blue eyes lock with his grey, made black in the diminished green light. 

If he ever looked a beast…

The Hound’s eyes make quick work of her, mouth twitching. He smears the blood from her face with the leather underbelly of his gauntlet. Sansa prays that he’s gotten what he wanted, that it would be enough.

But it wasn’t. 

The Hound spins Sansa around, locking her against his chest, before peeling back the grey woolen hood. “You’ll not shut your eyes this time. Didn’t think I saw that, did you?” His hand finds its way back to her chin, holding her steady. “Look at how the city burns; take an eyeful. Think on those songs, those knights. That Gold Cloak, now there was a pretty knight.” The Hound rubs his ruined cheek against her own, pointedly. The bulk of his chest heaves against her, like a dog, a mean dog. “This is what war brings, Little Bird. Remember that.”

“Let go,” she pleads, though no longer afraid, instead swollen with anger. Sansa squirms against him. She can’t think of anyone she hated more.

Except maybe Joffrey. 

Finally, she is sprung free, to only be pulled back and into the stable. The Hound is dragging her again, like a chained animal. He’d prefer to think me a caged bird. But I am a Stark, a wolf, like father and Arya. 

Mules and horses alike stare with bulbous eyes, as they pass. Some nicker in greeting, others paw at the floorboards, restless. It would seem the stable was emptied of all decent mounts. The ones left appeared old and sickly. 

In one of the stalls Sansa believed empty, but on second glance, she swears she sees a bloodied body, a boy, young and buried beneath a fine layer of hay. She averts her eyes quickly, and tries to convince herself she’d seen nothing at all. Sansa wonders if the Hound noticed, but remains silent. 

Towards the back of the stable Stranger is held. The great, big, black beast seemed to know and understand what is taking place outside the stable. He kicks and hammers against his pin, hungry for freedom. And blood, I would think. As the Hound approaches, however, Stranger begins to calm, content to lean into his master’s touch, The Hound murmuring in the horses ear. 

Stranger was a handsome animal, coated in black velvet, his muscles are honed and chiseled. But Sansa knew better than to go near; she was quickly learning to be wary of handsome and pretty things. 

In no time, the Hound has the horse saddled. He straps their things to the beasts back, along with two bedrolls, and it dawns on Sansa that they would be sleeping outside. A sting of regret prods at her gut, as she remembers a time when Arya had wanted to sneak out and sleep beneath the heart tree. Instead, Sansa told her mother, and that was the end of that. 

The Hound lifts Sansa into the saddle. She tries to situate herself to ride sidesaddle, but the Hound laughed and pinches her calf. Sansa gasps, though the pain is fleeting. She moves her leg over on the other side, so both legs are protruding awkwardly on either side. He laughs again, before swinging himself up behind her. Her cheeks begin to burn, as pools of scarlet pour into her cheeks. 

Sansa is rigid in the saddle. The Hound pulls her back to rest against him, but as soon as she is released, she holds herself away. “Lean, damn you,” he growls from above. “I’ll not tell you again.” His free arm encases her, slamming her back against his plate, cruelly, before setting Stranger off into a canter. 

As they pass through, Sansa makes herself look at the boy in the hay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave comments and reviews. I love to hear feedback.

Chapter Three

 

The Hound does not lead them far from the bay. The wall stands as a man-made horizon against a bile green dawn. The air is charred, as the smoke settles like an early morning fog. Sansa constricts her breath, convinced the air is made putrid by so much death. She can hear the muted howls of combat just beyond. 

 

The Hound makes it a point to avoid the main avenues, weaving Stranger in and out from one alley to the next. In the web of homes, shops and taverns the passages are narrow and inhibited. When Sansa first arrived in King’s Landing she believed the Red Keep to be the splendor of the city, but Sansa realized now she had been wrong. The real meat of King’s Landing did not lie on top of Aegon’s High Hill, but rather in these boundless labyrinths.

 

Few linger out in the open; a shadow passes here and there. Sansa feels unwelcomed, as if she were in the presence of something feral. In her mind’s eye, Sansa could see them all, beady black eyes peering from behind shutters and cracks in the doors. She can’t say what is worse, the scores of people in the streets, dangerous but in sight or the secluded back alleys, empty and uncertain. 

 

Panic was erecting like a tower with every moment spent in the Hound’s company. She has too much time to weigh and consider. Sansa almost asks to be taken back, though she knows her request will go unheard. She would plea insanity, knowing fully that the Hound would only laugh. Or shove her from the horse. 

 

Both, most like, sulked Sansa. 

 

The Hound must have sensed her anxiety, for he pats her on the arm. Sansa struggles not to think on the duality of his behavior, but instead accepts what comfort is offered. 

 

It was only a matter of time before Sansa understands that the Hound means to pass through the Iron Gate. From there they would certainly go north. Her heart lightens at the thought of that. 

 

However, her joy is short lived. 

 

It starts as no more than a whisper in ones ear, almost a distant hymn. Though as they approach, Sansa finds it almost resentful, riled even. She doesn’t understand right away, only recognizes that it is not being carried over from the bay. The Hound must hear it as well, for he draws his sword. The steel glides against his scabbard, sending a shrill chime through the stale night. It sets Sansa into a quiver. 

 

Down and out another alley, the Hound sets Stranger into a quicker stride. The hymn grows and grows, until it is a blistering chorus, as they finally empty out into the street. And for a moment, Sansa’s heart stops. 

 

The Hound directs Stranger to a sudden halt in the center of the road. The horse rears momentarily, and expels a peevish snort. 

 

Just ahead are the gates… and a horde. Men, woman, noble and common alike gather against a blockade, where Gold Cloaks stand sentinel on the other side. The people clamor over one another in a mesh of silks and rags, torn and tattered. So many voices converge into one, as they bark like a pack of wild dogs in the moonless gloom. 

 

Stranger begins to dig at the road, his hooves scraping against the cobble stone. His breath grows labored, while he waits expectantly for his master’s command. 

 

Sansa covers her ears, and turns to coward into the Hound’s chest. “Lady,” she grieves for her dead direwolf, and for her sister and for her father. Sansa prays to the Seven that she may live long enough to see what few kin are left to her. 

 

The Hound tucks the hood back over her head, almost tenderly. “Be ready,” is all the he rasped, before he urges Stranger into a gallop. 

 

When met with the mob, Stranger is almost thrown back, like a ship moving against the tide. The resistance pounds Sansa against the Hound. The pain becomes an incessant bruise, as the Hound begins to slash away at the fleshy reeds. 

 

Stranger was no less merciful than his master. The animal kicks and bites anyone unfortunate enough to be in his way. If any live, Sansa could not say, for the bodies were taken under the current and swallowed whole. 

 

Sansa scrambles to hang on. The Hound is much too broad and so she struggles to find her grip. At last, Sansa finds anchor about his neck, the scruff of his stubble is the sole comfort Sansa is able to treasure, and even that is gruff. In her hysteria, Sansa holds him too tightly. She can hear the struggle of his breath arise in irregular gasps, though he makes no attempt to remove her.

 

To no end, the butchers butcher. The meat is made red and tender, as they hack, thrash, and tare away. The flow of the blood is a perpetual river. But Sansa doesn’t want to think on that. Instead, her mind drifts to the sea at White Harbor. The northern sun had been high on her last visit. Sansa had managed to work up a sweat. The ocean spray was so lovely. Her skin had been so hot, and the ocean so cool. She felt cold now, and the blood warm. Back at White Harbor she had tasted salt. Now she tastes iron. 

 

The fish must taste it as well, for they begin to scatter. Opposition is alleviated, and Stranger is finally granted passage.

 

“Our thanks Ser.,” says a Gold Cloak, as he steps forward. He has a broken lip and a bruise above his brow. Sansa flinches at the clink of his boots, as she tries to cast away the memory of the last Gold Cloak they came across. She wonders if the Hound will kill this one too. 

 

“Look there, boy.” The Hound gestures back at his work. “They were only in my way. I had not real quarrel with them. Call me a Ser again, and I might have one with you.” The Hound’s tone is nothing less than a snarl. “Now, open these gates. The king commands it.”

 

“We are in the middle of a siege,” another Gold Cloak cries. Sansa notices then how young they were, all twenty of them. They all look like Robb. 

 

The Hound shifts in the saddle, hand flexing on the hilt of his sword, as a growl hums in the pit of his throat. Broken Lip looks to his brothers, then back to the Hound, his eyes hooded in suspicion. “On what business?”

 

“The king’s,” snapped the Hound. 

 

Broken Lip remains unconvinced. He jerks his head towards Sansa and asks, “And what is this?”

 

“Cunt for the road.” The Hound fastens his heavy arm around her waist, seizing her tight against him. “Allow us passage. Or die.”

 

Broken Lip gives Sansa a long hard look, as he aspires to see through the shadow of her hood. Sansa fights the impulse to recoil. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know me. He can’t see. None of them can see. 

 

Broken Lip gives the Hound a final look, before he bobs his head up and down, and up again. “Open the gates!”

 

“Open the gates,” the Gold Cloaks all echo in agreement. 

 

For a moment, Sansa allows a smile. It is a subtle luxury she had not permitted in some time. But still, at the root of it, Sansa knows nothing is what it once was. She has not forgotten the Hound in all his rage and all his glory. For all that Sansa was taught, she should think him glorious, but no. All is left is the stain. Every part of Sansa screams to hide, to shy away and turn a blind eye. But how can she? Perhaps she had not swung the sword herself, but the deed had been done in her name, at least in part. But for now, Sansa can smile, so she does.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave comments and reviews. I love to hear feedback.

Chapter Four

 

Through the slow rise of morning they ride. As the sun hangs high they ride. As the horizon is awash with pinks, yellows and purples they ride. Even as the sky becomes a black canvas freckled in a myriad of little lights they ride. To Sansa it seems the Hound never intended to stop. He did not sleep in the saddle, nor did he eat much either; he drinks. Though from time to time, the Hound lifts Sansa from the saddle. He threatens to leave her nearly every time, before he sends her waddling into the woods. She quickly finds a suitable bush and crouches low, making quick but clumsy work of her hem. On Sansa’s return, she finds him taking a swig, always. And always she pleas, “Rest… I need rest.” He only ever responds with a chaffing howl and a nip with his thumb and forefinger. Of course his pinches hurt, but he has taken to smoothing the pain over, almost instantly with the pad of his thumb, before placing her back on top of Stranger. He tells her to sleep. And they ride. 

 

In the saddle, Sansa’s dreams are dull and daft. When she wakes, Sansa peels back the lids of her eyes, and squints like a new born babe. The world is not so different from the one she visits while she sleeps, everything a bog of green, and brown, and black. A many a time, the light is low and dim, or bright and harrowing. Then there are times Sansa finds herself in the black pitch of night, and sees nothing at all. But in the dark she can suddenly smell the damp before the rain; she notices the silk of Stranger’s plume, or the heat of the man brewing from behind. Oftentimes, she falls asleep to the sound of his exhaustion, as he bellows like a beast, deep and laggard. Or to the tread of Stranger’s hooves as he pommels the ground with the rise and fall of his gate, up and down, up and down. The horse sends great big puffs of filth into the air. It covers her skirts, her hands, her face. 

 

Along the way they pass others: proud men, scared men, lost men, it makes no matter, they pay her little mind, and Sansa pays them even less. But as the sun journeys below the belt of the horizon, the wind swells so suddenly. The trees set to rocking, creaking and wailing like a company of widows. She thinks on Nan and her stories. They’re for children, Sansa often reminds herself. It does the trick for a time, but often a tree branch snaps, or the critters suddenly goes a scurrying. It’s just an animal, an animal. And more oft than not it is just that, an animal. Yet, there are nights her fears are truth. Some stumble, loud and clumsy, and easy to spot. Other nights the chill has set in, and their breath discharges in white little wisps, or they heave heavy clouds of smoke like a chimney. But then there are times their person is more ghoul than man. They carry through the eventide unnoticed, until Sansa is staring into the whites of their eyes. She senses something cruel in the way they blink at her, the black hood of their eyes flapping like moths. When they pass by, Sansa will often looks back at the Hound, watching as his eyes follow them. He never meets her gaze straight away, but when he finally does, he grunts at her, or squeezes her arm. And Sansa doesn’t feel so silly anymore. 

 

On the third night, while adrift in the saddle, Sansa stirs to her back aching horribly. A low grumble reverberates at Sansa’s ear. Her thoughts instantly turn to Lady in the way the breath mists and drips, but soon remembers a lady never drools. So she groans and pushes against the Hound’s heavy frame. A nearly impossible task, her efforts only seem to make matters worse; Stranger’s mane now tickles at her nose. Sansa tap, tap, taps at his knee. Nothing. She gives him one of her own pinches. He snorts, and adjusts, but still nothing. Sansa slaps him then, right on top of his thigh, with a crack! He jolts upright, yawns, and scratches at the scruff on his good cheek, the hair scraping not unlike his voice. The Hound grumbles something low and deep in his chest; Sansa cannot hear what. 

 

A few paces ahead they come to a small clearing, with the sound of a stream somewhere nearby. The Hound puts Stranger to a stop, and swings from the saddle. He eyes her from the ground, not unkindly. Sansa is glad of the dark; she could meet his gaze just as direct. He bares his teeth at her; if it is a snarl or a smile Sansa cannot tell otherwise. He scoops her up in his arms, reeling back on his heels as he does so. Forward and back, forward and back, they linger for a moment, as if he’d forgotten what he had been doing. He very well may have, realized Sansa. I want to go home. 

 

The Hound laughs so suddenly Sansa nearly leaps from his arms, but he’s got her tight. He’s either mad or drunk. 

 

Sansa hopes it to only be the latter. 

 

Finally, the Hound sets her down gently, before leaving her to tend to the horse. Sansa moves one step, two steps, and then drops. She tucks herself away, and shuts her eyes. The Hound lays down somewhere near. Or maybe he has fallen; the ground shakes. She can’t find it in herself to care. The grass is soft. And she is tired. 

 

Sansa’s dreams come to her fitful and fleeting. In a moment she is inside the Red Keep, in the throne room. She stands there, before the Iron Throne, amongst the jeers and leers of court. She had once thought them painted so prettily in their silks, and gold, and jewels. 

 

Joffrey was there, of course, clad in crimson and gold. My golden prince, she nearly laughed. He was made of fool’s gold, she now knows. He begins to laugh and point, stomping and bucking like an ass. She looks about, confused, until a cold draft nips at her exposed self. Sansa wants to hide and cover her nakedness, but her wrists are swiftly caught in a painful cinch, as the sharp scent of garlic leaks into her nostrils. Bruises seep into her flesh in shades of blue and purple, yet no man had raised a hand against her. Blood surfaces, appearing more black than crimson against the somber spots. 

 

Sansa’s tears distort, reshape, devour, and then expel her surrounding, to only rebuild anew. As her tears clear, she is no longer in the throne room, but rather in her old chambers within Meagor’s Holdfast. Sansa sits-up in bed. Outside it is dark and still. The candles are all alright, casting shadows where the light may not cross. 

 

A dream, Sansa surmised. It was nothing more than a dream, all of it. She is clothed, unharmed. No blood. She leans back, contented. 

 

Clack, clack, clack, there is a rustling at the door, scratch, scratch, scratch, clack, clack, clack! “Lady?” Her heart leaps. But how can it be?

 

The breeze gusts through her open windows, curtains bristling. The light of the candles dance, flicker, and fade and rise, and fade again before fluttering out. The dark is thick and still as a stagnant pond, and just as fowl. The smell of smoke carries into her room, as she stumbles for the window. Sansa looks to her hands, for they feel damp and clammy. She could faintly make out the dark splotches, where the blood has percolated through the pale fabric at her arms. Her hands are veiled in black and blue, the blood weeping. The breeze stills, though only for a moment, before expelling the length of its breath in her face, as the sky flares from pitch, to orange, to jade. 

 

Clack, clack, clack, scratch, scratch, scratch, the rustling begins anew, Lady whimpering from outside her chamber. She retches towards the door, slipping and sliding as her bare feet dip into her own puddle of blood. The door rattles, as the animal persists to dig, until the door suddenly breaks free, and Sansa stumbles through. 

 

What should have been a corridor, narrow and dark, was instead an open plane of fresh snow. A thousand whispers hum in Sansa’s ears, the voices soft like a child’s, as great oaks and sentinel trees erect around her. A steaming pool collects before, and beyond the heart tree; Sansa knows it to be. Her father’s figure is seated before the great weirwood.  
The ice crunches beneath her feet, as she takes a step forward, a flock of birds bursting overhead. Sansa’s father looks up at her then, smiling, and calls to her, “Sansa.” Sansa wants to go to him, but something warm and wet is lapping at the palm of her hand. Gazing down, she sees an old dog at her side with blood on his whiskers. 

 

“You’re not lady,” said Sansa dimly.

 

Sansa awakens with tears in her eyes, her head throbbing to the beat of a mummer’s drum.

 

With the shadows still at play, the stars are able to linger through the first blush of morning. The air is cool, but crisp and sweet as an apple. As odd as it is, Sansa stands on the shore of the river near camp, arms filled with driftwood. She can see where the Hound tied-up Stranger, some ways down the bank. Further still, there is another. A man she thinks, but not the Hound. His frame is too thin, too stunted, and wiry. He crouches along the bank, low and creeping like a crab. Sansa’s first instinct is to scream, run, hide, anything. Yet, an enthralling anger simmers in the pit of her gut, maddening, twisting, and like nothing she had ever known before. This isn’t me, is all Sansa can seem to think, as she draws a dagger she did not known she possessed. She approaches, slowly. Though silent, Sansa makes no real attempt to conceal herself. Closer, closer, and closer still the stranger continues unaware of what is upon him, as he eyes the camp greedily. His tongue grazes over his crusted lips, once, twice, three times, before Sansa ensnares him by the collar of his tunic. 

 

“S…s…s…,” stuttered the man. Sansa has him by the shoulders now, just above the water. The river runs deep here, though the water appears calm and subdued, the current is almost certainly treacherous. Her lips curl tight in a smile at the thought of the man drowning. Something callous and lurid tightens in her grip, as Sansa begins to squeeze.  
No, not me.

 

“S…Ser…I me…meant no harm.” The stranger’s face was grubby and darkened by soot, his eyes so bright and so wide. 

 

“No, but I do,” said Sansa, her words a rasping horror.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for the lovely comments. Feedback is helpful and certainly ideal.

Chapter Five

Sansa rises from her bed of matted grass and twig to find that she is alone. The evidence is there in the Hound’s restless leavings, where the grass lies flat, and there where the greenery is trimmed and torn out by Stranger. Sansa did not dream it all, surely. Still, all is gone. 

 

Weak in her motions, Sansa’s knees tremble. An ache pounds at the slanted ridges of her temple, until her vision narrows. The black seems to swallow all, save for its mouth where it pinches in a cockled oh, but widens to spit her back out. The sudden prospect, the fear has real weight, for what stems from the mind the heart carries; Sansa is engorged by it, till she can carry no more, and so it empties in fits of tears and sobs.

 

The night’s visions leave Sansa depleted… and cold. She hugs herself, seeking comfort in the feel of what is her own, but finding none. If Sansa had remained in Winterfell, she may have reached out for her friend, Jeyne, even Arya. But it’s her mother she wants. Sansa had a dog, but he left her too. He came to me. I never asked… And then he left me. 

 

Sansa turns to the river, and to the lazy sun, and to the hills that roll about in line with the horizon. She settles on the water’s edge, its shore all gravel and grime. If her dress had not already been ruined, it certainly is now. The gown had been a gift from her mother, though cherished, hardly practical. The world cared not for such finery, its vitality feeble at best. The days are growing shorter and the nights colder; now is the time to redone her furs. She remembers when her father had gutted the beast, how horrible it had been. When he presented its coat, Sansa wept. She hid it away, a gift Sansa thought best forgotten. And forget she did, separating herself so she may play amongst the lions. If only Sansa had known that she was but one little piece of larger meat, easy for a dog out for scraps. Sansa digs her hand into rough soil, the rocks grating. And then he left me. 

 

Sansa drinks from the river until she is swollen. Though its promises empty, it does glitter, as the water sloshes about inanely. The girl needs something of substance, Sansa knows. She’s taken to wandering up and down the shore in search of berries amongst the bushes that line the river bank, with no such luck. With the light fading, her stomach has become a hallow-black-pit, groaning and griping its displeasure. But Sansa does not dare wander into the thick of the wood. The river is safe. Known. 

 

Hunger however, is not. It plants itself, grows. The stock is heavy in her gut, the flower tempting, and the roots griping. The hunger drives her, like any animal. Coming to head, Sansa becomes bold as the girl goes further, until the shingle disappears. The trees grow angled and thin on a steep slope. The older stock is claimed by the river, long ago, dead, drowned, and lapped over like a bridge. And above, where the water had floundered and burrowed out the soil a bush of yellow gooseberries grow. The girl’s stomach tightens at the site of their golden heads, anticipation palatable on her tongue.

 

Where the river is tamed, caged by the fallen timber and where the reeds grow thickset and hardy the waterway looks to be still. Though its contents turbid and rank with rot, Sansa slips from her shoes and with it her stockings, before hitching about a tree. The bark is unkind, marred by some beastly thing. The wound bites into the delicate soles of Sansa’s palms and fingers, though it is sturdier anchor than the others. It does well, as she eases a foot into the water. 

 

The river is little better, certainly quicker than Sansa had hoped, but not entirely impossible. The temperature is a gasping sort of cold, formidable; Sansa is ceased by it for but a moment, maybe two, but adjusts, and lowers the other. Its levels are well past her knees. The ruin remnants of Sansa’s dress flows steady with the current, exposing the ivory length of her beneath the opaque, a pretty sight; a rarity not to be seen out in the open. Be it man or woman, her mother always said. Certainly uncouth, Septa Mordane would have agreed. 

 

If they were here. 

 

Sansa manages, clamoring over a log, though slippery and splintered. A gush of red muddles in the mire, as it sweeps over a trout, a mother heavy with eggs, though wedged at the tail and sliced at the gill.  
Yonder, on the slope are the gooseberries. Sansa reaches, a branch firmly in her grip, as she grasps feebly. The tips of Sansa’s fingers all but brush along its curve, so she takes a step, the dead trout between her toes; the eggs expel. Sansa thinks it wrong, but the fruit is surely to be sweet. At last, the berry is in her grasp, and in her mouth, rolling around on her tongue before she takes a hungry bite. But to Sansa’s bitter disappointment, the fruit is foul in her mouth, its meat tart and tough. Sansa spits the berry in her palm, ready to discard the vile substance to the depths, yet something steadies her hand. Its contents lain bare, Sansa weighs its worth, thinks better on it, and swallows. She takes another, and then another, and then another, each more horrible than the next, but swallow she must.

 

Sansa finds a place on a log, plucking the gooseberries until the bush is bare and she is fat. She gathers a sizable pile in the dip of her gown, where she harbors them for safe keeping. On the morrow, Sansa would have a fine breakfast, a lunch too, perhaps if she rations. The thought brings comfort, as well as fear. Tomorrow her farewells would go out to the river, and tomorrow she’d greet the unknown, the Stranger, as it were. But it was not the Stranger who her prayers will go to, but to the Crone and to the Mother, and to the Maiden. 

 

And to the Father, may he grant me mercy. 

 

Sansa finds ground where the slope is burrowed in flat. Both of her hands fill with the hem of her raggedy gown, lifting high to cradle her earnings, the girls shift flaps shamelessly around her ankles. What a sight I must make… If anyone were to see. Sansa’s face goes hot at the mere thought, her cheeks tingling queerly. A childish thought, Sansa sets it aside, the feeling decidedly silly. Sansa means to turn, onward to camp, when a dark beast, though familiar in its velvets, catches her eye. 

 

And then he left me. Had she been wrong? 

 

Stranger’s back is to Sansa, a long ways down where the shore returns more sand than stone. The animal is deep in the reeds. He turns to his side, head bobbing, no doubt feeding on the sweet grass that grows in the shallows. Peculiarly, the Hound’s mount begins to back away, head jerking just so. No, dragging. And then a hand appears through the green.

 

Hound… It’s on her tongue, ready to be herald to the world, but it is forgotten, along with the berries that go plop, plop, plop into the water. And then Sansa’s stumbling off the slope, onto the shore where Stranger is dragging, dragging, dragging him onto the bank, clad only in his smallclothes. But, no, as Sansa nears she sees it is not the Hound at all. 

 

This is not right. 

 

The horse releases the stranger, a mark on his shoulder where the horse’s teeth dug in, and tore away into the rot. And then she sees his face, that same face. How frightened he had been, Sansa can never forget. It cannot be. Dreams were not meant for the waking world, Sansa knows this to be true. No, but nightmares are… It cannot be, Sansa repeated. How can it be? Sansa slows, her approach ending but foot steps away, as the beast stands, both front hooves on the corpse’s chest. Sansa remembers him, imagines the man thin and red in the face, alive as he should be. Now the man is bloated and blue, and dead, with a foul smell that excrements as Stranger continues to trample. Sansa wants it to stop, how obscene it is to see his chest collapse, the weight of Stranger’s hooves sinking into the flesh of his gut and groin. The horse nickered a warning, rearing up and down to stake his claim. So instead, Sansa cowards away, eyes down cast to look upon her hands, as she waits for the blood to appear. Sansa thinks on running, but there is no need, hands steal her away. She doesn’t want to go; the girl pulls away, clawing at the hands that have her. But it is all for naught. The Hound lifts her high, cradling her close. And so Sansa weeps, for it is all a mother’s daughter is taught to do. 

 

The Hound deposits Sansa in the bed she’d made the night before. He crouches low on his haunches, and examines, poking and prodding at the cuts on her feet, as the girl nurses at the residuals of her fit. Sansa swats away at him, but the Hound keeps on, until he is satisfied. He catches her chin in a pinch, tilting her face into the dying light, before he licks his thumb and wipes across a scratch on her cheek. Sansa raises a hand to smack him, shove him, maybe, but he catches them easily, squeezing her fingers together until they are gorged on blood. Sansa whimpers a complaint, though feigned, the Hound does loosen his grip.  
“I had traps to set. Stranger got lose. I did not think you to wander so far. Over there to the shore, maybe, if you’d waken at all.” The Hound kneads queerly into the palm of her hand. His eyes measure hers, head tilting just so. “So, what did you think of him, Little Bird? … No? Nothing? I thought not.” He’s giving her things now. They’re Rags, all black and gray, and filthy. Sansa looks away, but the Hound is quick in his corrections, pulling her close for good measure. The mop of his dark hair caresses over the bridge of her nose; she hates it. “Listen, girl. You could’ve done worse. There are darker things still, than a dog’s leavings.” He releases her, with a quick snort, before standing. “Now you’ve seen him. And now you’ll wear his clothes.” He turns on her, meaning to leave. “I need my horse and you need to dress. Be quick.”

 

“You didn’t have to kill him!” The words came to Sansa unbidden and with regret. 

 

The Hound stops in mid stride, his foot hovering over his next step. Surprised, surmised Sansa. or undecided. “He meant to take something of mine.” he lowers his foot in place. 

 

“He couldn’t steal Stranger away, even if he tried… He must have been hungry, only hungry.”

 

“Aye, a man’s hunger,” he said. And he turns to reveal the ruined side of his face. There is a smile there, it tells of a jape in the curl of his lip and in the twinkle of his eye. 

 

“You didn’t have to kill him,” Repeated Sansa quietly to herself. 

 

His face turns grim. Sansa remembers the anger. She looks away. He takes a step, another, and another, and then another until the ends of his boots were in toe with her own. Sansa waits for her punishment, a pinch, but it never comes. “Know this girl, what he intended I’ll have you take no part in, with him or any other.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next couple of weeks will be a juggle for me. I'm leaving for vacation here soon, and quickly afterwards I will be moving. Thank you for your encouragement. It's more helpful than you can know.

Chapter Six

 

The Hound sleeps close tonight, with the half-moon overhead, where the breeze withers down and stirs a dying bed of coals. In the dark they writhe and roar an amber glow and catch in the eyes of a wild dog. 

 

The dog is no sleepless cause. A pitiful thing, the animal keeps a wide birth. He settles down for the night, green eyes glaring as he feasts upon a bed of bones 

 

Turning over and curling in, Sansa lies on her side, the knobs of her knees pressing into the cage of the Hound’s ribs. He shifts suddenly with the grass and the breeze, and Sansa stills beneath a thick palm. The Hound grasps, fingers at the rough fabric of her breeches, twisting. He nears, as his hand comes to rest. Cold and clammy, the Hound’s touch reminds her of the dead. Sansa nudges him away. 

 

The Hound rasps, “You’re awake.” 

 

Sansa let go of a sigh into the turbulence of the night, as she tucks herself away from the cold and from the Hound. She prays for a dreamless sleep, and for a spring to bloom in the dawn of autumn. _Impossible things._

 

“Girl,” he beckons, “Sansa… ”A pair of green eyes seek and find her in the depth of the night, and the Hound lays closer, the heat of him settling on her back. He must think her asleep for the Hound says no more. Sansa stills beside him, until his deepening breaths tell a tale of an even deeper sleep. 

 

The stray passes on and through camp, pausing only to whiff Sansa’s hair. Its teeth are a pale dawn, as the dog bares them. 

 

_Am I dreaming?_

 

Sansa seeks out the crook of the Hound, burying herself beneath. And the dog leaves her for his bones. She calls upon her father’s face, but another’s is still so near. Yet, the night is nearer still and with it the cold, and the shadows, and all the unseen things.

 

At last Sansa slips into a steady slumber, and dreams of carrying a child in the early gray light. Her vision is a foggy thing, and on her palate a foul taste. The child shifts in her arms; a slender gray bundle. Sansa peels back its woolen hood. 

 

And Sansa jolts. 

 

Awake and squirming, the Hound places her upon Stranger, muttering one curse or another. His breath carries over, heavy and acidic, while a puckered pink bloom blossoms on the Hound’s good cheek. 

 

“My apologies, Ser. I never meant… ”

 

“I’ll hear no more Ser’s from you, Bird,” The Hound spat in her face. He uncorks the wine skin and pulls deeply.

 

_Venom lives in his veins_ ; it is easy for Sansa to forget. 

 

The girl in her shrinks away and looks to the dense wood, rows of old growth, dead and dying. Escape is never far from Sansa’s mind. That night when the sky had been lit asunder with the green flame, the queen had provided her with ample drink and the girl had been mad with fear, otherwise Sansa does not believe she would have agreed. 

 

A heavy fog blankets the ground and clings to the trees like a silken blind fold. Sansa makes a move to leap from the horse and run, but the dog from the night before breaks her resolve. The animal weaves through the brush and the mist as a darkened shadow, before it finds a softened patch of earth to bury his bones. He claws and digs, pausing as he catches sight of her, ears on end as he stares her down. 

 

_Arya would run and she’d never look back._. But, Sansa she looks back now. And there still the Hound is in his cups, a grisly gray eye ever watchful; they glaze over in the height of his stupor, as the sun breaks above the mist. Her vision tapers to the gnarled nest of flesh and into dark egg of his eye, where a child’s fear grasps at her better senses. The Hound’s gaze hardens in narrow suspicion, cautious of her daring but not all together displeased. A tremor passes through the stillness of his person, and his lips curl and twitch into a jaunty sneer. The girl does not relent, and the Hound shies away, tail between his legs. 

 

And the girl realizes then that she pities this man, Sandor Clegane. 

 

“I am sorry,” Sansa peeped. The Hound says nothing, but he gives her a snort, and swings up in the saddle. And they carry on. 

 

The transition from morning to afternoon comes in a quiet way, the mist dispersing with their midday meal of bread and hard cheese. The Hound offers her wine from his skin, as they break their fast and again as they finish. Sansa declines each time, good girl that she is, and each time he laughs. 

 

The Hound does not break Stranger’s stride until the sun is heavy in the west, where the trees are sparse and give way to fields of green grass, rolling hills, and a muddy old road. 

 

They come upon people: farmers, laborers, a common lot. Some wave a good day, while others only stare like a doe as they pass by. The Hound pays little mind, only pulling a hood over his head as they enter a village. 

 

“On with yours now too, bastard,” Said the Hound with a pat. 

 

Her head snaps back at him. “Pardon?” Had she heard him wrong?

 

“Hood. Now, bastard.” 

 

“I’m not a bastard,” the girl shirked. 

 

He covers her mouth. “Enough.” His voice lowers. “No one would ever believe you a boy. But a bastard? Maybe. ” The Hound releases her, and dismounts, boots sinking into a deep rut of mud. He coaxes the horse to move along, and leads him into a stable. Once inside the Hound hands the reins over to a moon eyed boy with hair the color of straw. The Hound lifts her from Stranger’s back, before tossing the boy a coin. He bids her stay with the horse. But as one dog turns to leave there comes another. 

 

The old mutt shakes his coat free of mud and flea, before trotting on after the stable boy. In toe, Sansa follows the pair to the back of the stable. 

 

The dog settles down on a bed of hay, nibbling at a flea on his rump. Sansa reaches in, feeling through their bags, while the boy silently tends to his work. The girl holds out an open palm to the dog, enticing him with a scrap of bread. The dog licks his chops, and rises to the invitation. 

 

“Best not, milady,” Said the boy. He takes the bread for himself, tossing it back with a grin. “Feed a dog and he’ll only come back for more.” 

 

_He is so handsome_ , thought Sansa, as a blush christens her cheek with scarlet allure. “Is he yours?”

 

“What? Ain’t nobody want him, except maybe my mum. She lets him have the scraps.” The boy gives the dog a slap on the rear and yells, “Away with ya! You mean ol’beast.” The dog slinks away, alone and hungry. “You got a name, milady?” The boy draws nearer, with his easy smiles and pale eyes. 

 

She should lie, Sansa knows, but he was just a boy. “Sansa.”

 

“Sansa?” He tests the name out on his lips. It sounds awkward, ugly, and all together not right coming from this common boy. “A pretty name that is. Ain’t that the name of the king’s bride?”

 

“NO! No… I mean yes. But…”

 

“Bastard,” called the Hound, ceasing her by the arm. “Come along now, bastard.” And as he drags her away. His ruined lips seek out her ear. “You’ll speak to no one. Not a chirp out of you, bastard. You hear me?” 

 

They are outside quicker than she could have known, and at the door of the inn he corners her, back against the planks. “Did you give him your name?” When she doesn’t answer he pinches her chin, and holds her face so near to his. “Did you give him your name?”

 

“No.” It was a lie, and he would know. _And that boy, that poor boy…_ The Hound would kill him, she is sure. Her eyes are filling with tears, his face a beclouding curse. She doesn’t want to look at him. He’d know. 

 

“Don’t you lie to me, bastard.”

 

“Stop calling me that! Bastards have names!”

 

“Aye, your own brother, that bastard. Jon was it? Now there’s a lordly name. You’d like that. A lords name for a lords whelp.” The Hound wipes the tears from her eyes with his cruel hand, the mud of the road smearing. “Most aren’t half so lucky. Bastard is what you are, and Bastard I’ll name you.” He laughs at that, turning for the door. And as he enters the inn he bellows, “a bastard named Bastard!”


End file.
